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NOVEMBER MONTHLY - A Killing Frost ~RESULTS~

NOVEMBERMONTHLY

"The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.
- William Shakespeare

Libra and Scorpio collide in November. Two star signs seeming opposites. On the surface, Librans are balanced, fair, just, open. Scorpios secretive, sly, deadly.
(I exaggerate, of course, but you get the idea)

Your challenge for November is to write a drabble featuring two characters who are opposites. This can be a pairing, a friendship, or enemies. But your two characters must reflect the very natures of Libra and Scorpio.
The only other specification is that it has to be a frosty day and that should be remarked on.

You have until November 30th 10pm GMT to write your drabble and post it here.

Drabbles should be between 300-500 words.

There will be points awarded for first, second and third place, plus participation points. HOWEVER, if I do not receive enough entries – or enough quality entries, then I reserve the right to not award points (places or otherwise).

“Scorpius, right?” Ginny said brightly to Draco and Astoria. It was the start of Christmas vacation, and they were waiting for their children to arrive home.

“Yes,” Draco said tightly, without elaborating.

Ginny stood in silence for a moment. Harry had work, so she had been forced to come alone, and to make things worse, Hermione and Ron weren’t there either. And to make things even more uncomfortable, Astoria mumbled something about meeting friends and stumbled away. Ginny knew it wasn’t precisely mandatory to speak to Draco, but she felt like she should break the frosty tension. It was already enough of a frosty day.

“He’s not much like me,” Draco admitted. “Sorted into Gryffindor…and he’s friends with Granger’s girl. Rose.”

“Is he really?” Ginny asked. “Hermione didn’t tell me that.”

“Rose might not have told her,” Draco said, and the frosty silence fell back among them until the train arrived.

Albus was the first one off the train, running towards Ginny. “Mum!”

And then Ginny saw Scorpius and Rose walk off the train together, and she stopped paying attention to what Albus was struggling to tell her. “Who would have guessed?” she said softly.

Albus began to tug at the edge of her robe. “You didn’t write as much as you said you would, Mum.”

“I’m sorry,” Ginny apologised sincerely. “We’ve been busy. I can’t wait for you to see our house. We even painted it, Al!”

“Wow,” Albus said, genuinely surprised for a second, but moving on quickly. “And guess what else, Mum? You know Mr. Malfoy? And his son Scorpius? Well, Rose is friends with Scorpius. Did you know that?”

“I did, but Mr. Malfoy told me,” Ginny said. “Rose didn’t write and tell me.” She began to walk slowly forward to see James and Rose, who was still talking eagerly to Scorpius.

“He really is different from you,” Ginny said quietly to Draco, and even after Ginny had gathered Rose and James up, even after they were preparing to leave, Draco’s eyes did not leave Ginny.

Once she was gone, though, Draco turned down to Scorpius and said, “How’s Gryffindor? And everyone’s nice to you, right?”

“It’s great,” Scorpius said, his eyes shining. “And everyone is nice. Especially Rose. But she says she can’t understand why you don’t like her parents.”

Draco didn’t respond for a long time. “Well, you know, Scorpy, we had our differences in school. And I wasn’t very nice. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be.”

“Stay with me. I have friends in high places now. We wouldn’t have to worry anymore,” he assured her.

“I don’t want to be safe if it means allying myself with him. You know that.”

“Then come away with me. We can hide. Please. Don’t leave me.”

In the darkness of the night, he could barely make out the glistening of tears on her cheeks. “I can’t leave them.”

“But I love you,” he said, his voice a desperate plea.

She held his hand, kissed his fingers, and let go. “Sometimes, that’s not enough.”

* * *

“Dorcas,” he says, the name sliding off his tongue like velvet, “I’ve missed you.”

She smiles at him – a sad sort of smile that makes her look much older than her twenty-five years. “I’ve missed you too, Evan.”

“Walk with me.” It’s more of a demand than a question, and for a moment he thinks she’s about to leave him again. Her eyes are cautious as she peers over his shoulders.

“Are we alone?” she asks pointedly.

“Trust me,” he says, an easy smile coming to his lips as she takes his hand.

They walk for a while across the icy field without saying anything. She presses her body into his side, and he holds her close with his arm across her shoulders. They walk like they used to walk when they were young and defiant and in love.

Evan stops as they get to a small grove of trees and stares off at something in the distance.

“It’s chilly out today,” Dorcas remarks, tentatively breaking the silence. “The frost came early this year.” She leans her head into his shoulder and suddenly he turns and kisses her.

“Evan…” she murmurs, looking up at him.

“In case we never get the chance again,” he replies, lowering his lips to hers once more. He wishes for a moment that they could stay like this, her soft, perfumed skin against his for eternity.

A familiar crack breaks them apart.

“You’ve done well, Rosier.” The voice is high and cold and piercing in the air.

He feels Dorcas’s nails dig into the skin on his wrist winces.

“Evan?” she whispers, as though begging him to tell her that her suspicions are wrong.

Name: Phia PhoenixHouse: RavenclawTitle: >.> (Untitled)Wordcount: 500 Rating/warning: 1st-2nd years, I think, no warningsA/N: Hmm, I'm not even sure who the "Scorpio" is in this! And I apologise in advance, I have a weakness for melodramatic final lines...

***

Lily’s attention slipped once again from Professor Jagget; she shivered, pulling her robes closer around her, and regretted sitting beneath the frosted-over window. Around her, students blew into their hands or lit small flames at the ends of their wands to dispel some of the cold. Eventually silence fell as the Professor realised the lack of concentration.

‘Well, class,’ he announced jovially, slapping his hands together, ‘it is frosty today, eh? Winter’s nearly upon us, mark my words! And I can see nobody will listen to my lecture on retarding curses – fascinating though it is – when they are too busy worrying about their extremities. But I think I have the solution to warm us up – for the rest of the lesson we’ll be practicing in a duelling exercise the spells we’ve studied so far this term. And no, Black,’ (He anticipated the question behind the raised hand) ‘that does NOT include the Unforgivables we covered last week!’

The students were shepherded into pairs; the Marauders were quickly separated (and dealt some of the most capable students, Lily noticed), and by the time the Professor got to her –

‘Hmm, Evans – you with young Mr. Snape, I think! See if you can test him a little, he always looks altogether too bored in my classes!’

Lily exhaled between her teeth. Brilliant. The young Death-Eater-in-training himself. She hadn’t spoken to Severus for over six months, and didn’t intend to break that streak now. With a terse jerk of the head she indicated a free corner; without waiting to meet her former friend’s eyes she strode over there herself, and took up the “ready” position.

‘Expelliarmus!’

Snape’s wand flew out of his hand and into Lily’s – she felt a glow of satisfaction which punched through the biting cold. The top Defense Against the Dark Arts student, caught out by a simple disarming spell!

The next time her curse was warded off by a weak Shielding Charm; the next, she caught him with a glancing Jelly-Legs; twice again he deflected her spells, and finally she caught him with a shouted ‘Petrificus Totalus!’ Her anger towards him almost dissipated by the cheer of repeated victory, she reached out a hand to help him up from the floor –

‘Really, Evans?’ The snide voice at her ear affected disappointment, ‘Don’t you see that you’re giving him what he wants? I’ll bet,’ James jeered at the petrified boy on the floor, ‘he let you win every round in a bid to soften you up.’

Lily’s hand checked in the air. ‘That true, Severus?’ He remained frozen, but the hatred in the eyes glaring at James over his hooked nose betrayed the truth. Lily struggled to resist spitting in his paralysed face.

‘Why Snivellus, you conniving– ’

The bell rang; the students filed out, chattering with the teacher. James hooked his arm round Lily’s as they passed through the door, throwing a wink at the still-petrified Severus.

An hour later, the encroaching winter had frozen his tears to his cheeks.

It was a frosty day, the first of the year. Helga loved the frost; she found it intriguing. The frost to her symbolized of the end of autumn, or the start of something new, as she liked to perceive it. Though she loved the bright colors summer and autumn brought to Hogwarts Castle, to her the winter purged it of its sins; the bright white snow clean and pure.

So Helga was wandering through the forest, deep in thought. She knew Salazar would be worrying about her; he was very protective of Helga. He called her ‘his will to live’, and they had been friends for her entire life before becoming lovers. Rowena and Godric were happy, so why not her and Salazar? Age is merely a number, Salazar always said. He was twenty-five to Helga’s mere seventeen, and some found the gap a little far for their liking.

“Helga? Helga? Where are you, Helga?” Salazar’s voice was strained with worry. It was rare for him to wear his emotions on his sleeves, and Helga immediately felt guilt for his worry.

“I’m here, my love,” she called out. Immediately Salazar appeared beside her, before pecking her cheek. Rowena always asked how Helga could possibly love Salazar, the man whose face was a mask; expressionless. She thought he was cold and empty, as most did. Helga would always say the same thing. Salazar was misunderstood; his past filled with horrors no one should be able to comprehend, and she would describe Salazar’s face while with her. The way his deep eyes shone, the way his face would light up a way no one had seen before. She was always open with Rowena, who would immediately deem her descriptions cliché.

“Don’t scare me that way, Helga. You just disappeared from your chambers; I had no idea where you were.”

“You know how I love the frost. It’s-“

“A new beginning,” Salazar smiled, as he had heard Helga proclaim the mysteries of frost many a time before.

“Yes,” Though Helga was giggling. Suddenly she was lifted off her feet and twirled around.

“I’m no Gryffindor,” Salazar admitted, before connecting their lips once more. It was different than his tender pecks; those always felt tentative. This was filled with passion and need never before seen by Helga. Suddenly it stopped.

“GO!” But Helga would not move. She never saw what it was, before the claws were upon her. Hours later, Salazar would stumble up to the castle, bleeding and carrying her corpse. “I never got to say goodbye.”

On that frosty day, Salazar Slytherin changed for good.

my pageBeautiful avvie by Nadia (magestic_ginny), and banner by TM_Wandstick.

No matter what anyone tells you, words and ideas can change the world.
(The Dead Poets Society)

She stormed into the room, slamming the door behind her hard enough to knock the icicles from the frosted window. It was clear Weasley had gotten under her skin again, but aside from the noise interrupting his already spotty concentration, Draco didn’t see what business it was of his.

Granger hadn’t turned to face him yet; in fact, Draco doubted she knew he was there. At least she’s quiet, he thought to himself, right before she punched the door in exasperation.

He grimaced involuntarily. The last two times he had seen Granger in this state, he’d ended up bruised and whimpering. Neither were memories he was fond of.

This time, however, her anger seemed to fizzle out almost as quickly as it had started. Clutching her hand, she pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the door, still not aware of Draco’s presence. She rolled against the doorframe, turning inwards, her eyes closed. Sliding down its length, she folded in upon herself until her chin came to rest upon her knees.

It was the first of several body-wracking sobs that woke Draco from the trance he’d fallen into watching her. She’s crying. She’s crying, and there’s no way out.

Unsure of how to handle the situation, Draco speedily backlogged through his memories of girls crying. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, and it wasn’t as though he and Granger were on good terms when she wasn’t blubbering. Anything he could think to do seemed like a ridiculously bad idea. The task now seemed to be picking the least dreadful of the options before him.

Making the decision, he levitated his handkerchief towards her side of the room, clearing his throat.
Draco could hear her gasp with surprise at the noise. He chanced a glance up at her. “You alright?”

Her red-rimmed eyes searched his own questioningly as she accepted the handkerchief. Suspicion and confusion looked back at him, but with them came something else, something unfamiliar to Draco. He softened his gaze, trying decipher the emotion he couldn’t identify.

The words he awaited never came. After a long moment, he’d realised that he was staring, and dropped his eyes to his book. Sometime after that, she rose, crossing her arms protectively around herself. She turned to leave and Draco nodded to himself, nearly unaffected by her desire to get away from him.

Then suddenly she was beside him, holding out the small white cloth he’d given her. He looked at it, taken aback. He accepted the handkerchief tenderly, allowing her to drop her hand away from his without contact. She did so, then turned to the door she’d become so familiar with.

Draco had already turned his eyes away from her when he heard it. “Thank you.” And by the time he’d looked back to where she had stood, Hermione had already gone.

It shocked him. So much so that it took him two hours to he realise the handkerchief was the key to his freedom.

Name:lttlebirdHouse:GryffindorTitle: The MuralistWordcount:500Rating/warning:3rd-5th/Se-lash

**************

The jangle of her laughter rolls through the room to his left, glancing from cut crystal and sterling to reflect, loud and gleaming, from the giant mirror hanging inside the doorway.

Blaise stops in the stairwell, stilled by the image of his mother’s mouth in the mirror, lips split wide, flashing ivory teeth and a glistening, red tongue. Her fingertips rest on the bare skin at the back of the young man’s neck, then fall away. She moves to stand beside him, evaluating the work so far.

“Stunning,” she breathes.

“Perhaps you should reserve judgement for when it’s finished.” His smile is slight. “I might manage to ruin it, yet.”

She turns her face, her cleavage, his way, levelling upon him- Blaise knows, though he cannot see- the same clear, tea-green gaze that reduces most men to rubble.

“I doubt that very much, “she purrs, then glides away, watching him in the mirror as she goes.

Blaise drifts back up the stairs. He steps into his room and closes the door.

*****

She talks of him, hear and there, amongst their guests, all evening. She calls him “Mr. Thomas”, and “Dean Thomas”, or “My Muralist”, or, sometimes, just “Dean”. She gestures at the drop-cloth and promises an unveiling- perhaps, a private party with the artist. Every dusty fortune in the room fawns, lauding such auspicious talent, amazed that such questionable beginnings could spawn such a wonder.

Blaise answers when spoken to and makes sure the glasses are never empty- least of all, his own. As his mother leads the last guest to the door, he drops onto one of the sofas and takes another drink. She floats back into the room, plucks her glass from the mantle, and slips into her standard pose, all beauty and satisfaction.

Blaise snorts.

“You don’t see how ridiculous you are? He was in my year at school.”

She tilts her chin up and walks, lips pursed. She trails her finger along the back of the sofa and lays both her hands upon his shoulders.

“I’m ridiculous? Darling,” she leans down to his ear, “I’m not the one skulking about the corridors, watching him from afar.” She pats him twice, then walks away.

*****

Blaise wakes in the night. He walks to the sitting room and tugs down the drop-cloth. He stares at the place where Dean’s fingers, dripping with ochre, carved light out of shadow with one swift, sure stroke. Blaise traces the path of light, imagining the motion against his chest and stomach, down his back. He imagines fingers, palms, breath, lips.

He opens his eyes and goes back to bed.

*****

“You should paint it as it is, now,” Blaise says, gazing at the garden the next morning. “Just black sticks and ice.”

This is a bit of a record. A competition judged the day after it closes. What is the world coming to?

Although this has been speedy, I have taken time reading and deliberating and have made a decision. When deciding I took into account not only SPaG, but characterisation and also how well the prompt was followed. It was a drabble about opposites and a frosty day. I'm awarding a first and second place only (because there were only five entries), and both of these followed the prompt and were also fabulous drabbles.

First Place - lucca4 - Gryffindor - Come Away with Me - 15points
(I keep singing the Norah Jones song now. Did you have that in mind when you wrote it?)